Nell woke before dawn, as she always did, but this morning was different. This morning, she hadn’t slept at all.
Every time she closed her eyes, the ghost of his weight returned. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands at her waist and how he made her tremble with pleasure. When sleep finally teased the edges of her mind, his commands would echo back—low, desperate, and jagged—shattering her resolve. She’d find herself tangled in the sheets, legs pressed tight to stem the ache, biting the pillow to swallow a name she wasn’t supposed to say.
She was sore in places she’d forgotten could ache. Her lips felt tender, her thighs ached where he’d knelt between them, and when she pressed her fingers to her neck in the grey pre-dawn light, she could feel the raised welts where his teeth had marked her skin.
The yellow dress hung on the wardrobe door where Martha had placed it last night. Its cheerful colour seemed to mock her in the dimness; she couldn’t look at it. She couldn’t think about what she’d done while wearing it, what she’d let him do, or what she’d wanted him to do. She turned her back on it and draggedherself out of bed, her legs unsteady beneath her. Her whole body felt like it belonged to someone else.
The kitchen was cold and dark, and she welcomed it. She welcomed the familiar rhythm of lighting the ovens, of measuring flour and salt and yeast, and of pushing and folding the dough until her arms ached and her mind went blessedly blank.
Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.
But her hands remembered different things now. They remembered the texture of his hair between her fingers, the heat of his mouth on her core, and the strokes of tongue as he made her come undone.
The children were still asleep upstairs, along with Martha, and the house was quiet in that heavy way that came before dawn. It was a time when the world held its breath and waited for the sun. Nell was alone with her thoughts—it was dangerous territory, the most dangerous territory she knew. What had she done? What was she doing?
The shop bell rang. It was too early for customers, as the sun was barely cresting the horizon, and Nell’s hands stilled in the dough, her heart lurching against her ribs.
Daphne stood in the doorway, her face set in hard lines and her arms crossed tight over her chest. She wore her cloak still fastened at the throat, like she’d thrown it on and come straight here without bothering to properly dress.
“We need to talk.” Daphne’s voice was flat and brooked no argument as she tightened her jaw.
Nell’s stomach dropped through the floor. She wiped her floury hands on her apron, her fingers trembling against the coarse fabric. “Daphne, I—” She stopped, the words dying in her throat.
“Not here.” Daphne jerked her chin toward the back of the shop, her expression hard and unyielding. “The storeroom. Now.”
The storeroom was where Dominic had first kissed her. He’d pressed her back against the shelves and pleasured her with his fingers that had left her shaking. The irony was not lost on Nell as she followed Daphne through the kitchen, for her legs felt wooden beneath her, and her pulse hammered against her windpipe.
Daphne closed the door behind them and turned to face her, her dark eyes sharp in the dim light filtering through the small window. “I am not stupid, Nell.” She stood with her back to the door, her frame blocking the only exit.
Nell pressed her back against a shelf of flour sacks, putting distance between them. Her hands gripped the rough burlap for support. “I never said you were.” The response was a mere breath of sound, barely audible over the hum of the shop.
“Both of you were missing from that garden party.” Daphne ticked the points off on her fingers, her tone low but intense. “Both of you came back flushed and out of breath. Your dress sitting crooked on your shoulders, though his lip bleeding that time at the shop—don’t think I forgot that. And Martha couldn’t find either of you in that maze, no matter how hard she looked.”
Nell remained silent, her throat too tight for words as she stared at her friend.
“And the way he looks at you.” Daphne’s posture slackened, some of the anger draining away to reveal the raw worry beneath. She uncrossed her arms slowly. “Like you are the only person in the room. Like everyone else might as well be furniture.”
Still Nell held her peace, trying to remain steady.
“Tell me I am wrong.” Daphne stepped closer, her stare boring into Nell’s face for any sign of a denial. “Look me in the eye and tell me nothing happened in that maze.”
Nell opened her mouth to lie. She wanted to protect herself, to protect her children, and to maintain the careful fiction that she was a respectable widow. She should never do something so foolish as to let a viscount put his hands on her in a hidden alcove. The words wouldn’t come.
“I don’t know what is happening.” The confession spilled out of her. Her composure fractured, and she let her hands fall uselessly to her sides. “I don’t… I cannot explain it. I hate him. I do. He called me nothing, while he humiliated me in front of the whole village, while he is arrogant and reckless and everything I should despise. But when he is near me—” She paused, her breath hitching.
“You forget to hate him.” Daphne finished the thought quietly, her shoulders dropping.
Nell didn’t answer. She just nodded.
Daphne let the silence sit. She uncrossed her arms, reached over, and squeezed Nell’s hand once — hard — before letting go.
“He is a viscount, Nell.” Daphne’s head tilted as she studied her friend’s face. “With a title, an estate, and a family that will have opinions about who he brings home.”
Nell’s fingers curled around the edge of the shelf. “I know what he is.”
“And you are a widow.” Daphne held up a hand before Nell could interrupt, ticking off each word like beads on a string. “A widow with two children. Running a bakery in a village where the grandest thing is the church steeple. You think his family will welcome that with open arms?”
Nell said nothing. Her jaw tightened.
